


Hootin

by MykEsprit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Humor, Medieval AU, Rivalry, Unapologetic Anachronisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 09:31:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17957960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MykEsprit/pseuds/MykEsprit
Summary: For generations, the Malfoys and the Grangers have been fighting over the village of Hootin. With the death of Lord Granger and with Lord Malfoy being away at war, it is up to their heirs to end the feud.





	Hootin

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> Medieval AU: Level 2 - await your surprise prompt.  
> Lord Malfoy and Lord Granger have a long history of disagreement regarding the exact place their manor grounds end. Perhaps their heirs can settle this.
> 
> Thanks to In_Dreams and Kyonomiko for putting this awesome fest together! You ladies rock!

The village of Hootin lies along the banks of the river Streak, which is named for the lines of mud it leaves on one’s clothing when one crosses it. The residents of Hootin don’t mind their perpetually stained wardrobe—the river, after all, is their main source of income, as well as the only point of interest east of the Peacock Mountains (if one doesn’t count the willow tree with the cringing face on it).

The residents keep busy by selling their crafts and wares to visitors from as far as the kingdom border. Georgie the baker makes specialty loaves while his wife Anna, the blacksmith, turns perfectly fine Galleons into novelty souvenir coins. Old Tom’s wooden sculptures sell out; so do Young Tom’s handcrafted ale. Middling Tom, whom nobody usually pays any heed, can find a buyer or two for his used wagons.

The residents of Hootin are generally quite happy with life in their little village, except for one very small issue of to whom, exactly, they belong.

For generations—says Old Mel, who is between the ages of eighty-one and two centuries, no one was quite sure—the village has been a point of contention between the northern Malfoys and the southern Grangers. The feud has involved a lot of insults and bloodshed (like that time Lord Octavius Malfoy penned a scathing missive to Lord Gregorio Granger and nicked his finger on the parchment; a terrible tragedy).

Both families claim that Hootin lies on their lands, and it vexes the villagers tremendously. To whom should they pay taxes? Who would settle the squabbles among them? Which lord’s birthday should be an official village holiday (a question asked only by Crazy Todd so he can plan his Lord’s Day mattress sale accordingly)?

And—their latest conundrum—would attending Lord Henry Granger’s funeral be a grave insult to the Malfoys?

To be safe, they decide to pay their respects at the Granger residence in pairs and small groups. Gratefully, they are welcomed inside, where several banquet tables are overflowing with food to stave off their grief.

As they arrive, Hermione—now the Lady Granger—stares at them, an intensity in her gaze.

“Ah,” says Lord Harry Potter softly as he sidles next to her, “I believe they’re called ‘villagers.’ Or, perhaps to some of our more _esteemed_ peers, ‘those saps who keep us in silks and rubies come tax day.’”

Her gaze slides to him, and she quirks a dark eyebrow.

Harry gives her a lopsided smile. “You looked as if you were analyzing your newly-arrived guests. Or planning your next crusade in detail.” He fought off a grimace. “It’s not the latter, is it? I would, of course, aid you...but I’m still suffering the king’s silent treatment from our efforts in freeing the House Elves last summer.”

Hermione blinks and shakes her head slightly, a tired smile on her lips. “Just thinking about something…” Her eyebrows furrow as she glances at her guests in plain, clean garb. “Something my father asked me to do before he died.”

Harry hums noncommittally, raising a glass of red wine halfway to his lips. “I didn’t see the Malfoys at the service.” He takes a slow sip as he gives her a knowing look.

Hermione snorts, earning gasps from Lavender Brown and the Patil sisters. She rolls her eyes at the court-bred visitors before turning back to her friend. “Of course Lord Malfoy wouldn’t come. Even death can’t erase a generations-long feud.”

“This thing that your father wants you to do,”—Harry picks at an invisible thread on his sleeve—“does it have to do with Hootin, perchance?”

“Father was worried that the villagers would suffer if Malfoy claimed Hootin in the event of his death. I gave him my word they would be safe…”

Upon seeing his friend slump under the weight of a deathbed promise, he wraps an arm around her shoulders. An appalled murmur grows from the trio behind them, which he silences with a heavy glare. He pats Hermione’s shoulder companionably. “Then they will be safe. Because if I know my friend Hermione—”

She nudges him in the rib. “ _Lady_ Granger.”

“—the most gentle and noble and ladiest of Ladies, she’ll make sure all is right in the end.” He gives her shoulder a firm squeeze. “And I’m right here if you need me.”

Hermione leans into his embrace. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure to help.” With a mischievous grin, he adds, “ _Especially_ if it means taking something away from those awful Malfoys.”

She digs an elbow deeper into his side. “Harry!”

As Hermione admonishes her childhood friend, the same topic is being breached north of Streak. ‘Those awful Malfoys’ live in a mansion at the edge of Palewood Forest, and while people grieve the late Lord Granger, the current Lord Malfoy strides down his great marble steps. A resplendent riding cloak billows at his calves, and long strands of his blond hair flutter gracefully in the wind. Two paces behind him follows his scion, who is his twin in looks; although the younger’s hair is shorter and bound neatly at his nape, and he has yet to develop the emotional callous evident in the senior’s countenance.

At the base of the steps, Lord Lucius scowls at his son. “Do you know what you need to do?”

Draco Malfoy bites back much cruder words, choosing instead to reply, “We’ve been over this already, Father.”

Somewhere in the line of mounted soldiers behind Lucius, a derisive snicker is quickly smothered. Anger bubbles in Draco’s chest; but with his last shred of self-control, he stamps the urge to show it. The last thing his father needs to witness is him lashing out like a child.

“You  _must_ secure Hootin. It’s time. That old bastard’s finally dead, and he has only the girl to take his place.” A servant leads a horse to his side, and he hops nimbly into the saddle. “I would have taken care of it myself had the king not expressed such urgency.”

“You will quash the enemies quickly,” Draco drawls, “as always.”

“Yes. It will be quick.” Lucius narrows his grey eyes. “And by the time I get back, I expect Hootin to be ours.” With a flick of his heel, his black steed trots away.

Draco bends at the waist, keeping his gaze on the ground as Lucius and his hand-picked soldiers file out of the courtyard. When the clap of hooves fades away, he squares his shoulders and marches into the manor.

* * *

 

Hermione lifts her chin as she gazes at the manor before her. Its white facade (which had to have been magic, for it nearly blinds her even in the waning light) is pristine—suspiciously, unbelievably perfect. She takes a fortifying breath and smooths her skirt, slightly wrinkled from the carriage ride.

She had found it quite silly that she should need to take one, seeing as the distance between their residences is but a few hours’ walk. Harry had insisted, however, that she not arrive like the river’s namesake, and, in the end, she acquiesced. Now that she is standing in front of the immaculate manor, she is relieved that she did.

A Malfoy servant shows her through the entrance and a few turns of embellished hallways before announcing her at the reception hall.

The servant bids her to enter. As she steps inside, the brightness of the room blinds her, and she blinks until her vision clears. She immediately knows she is in a westward-facing room, for the wall to the outdoors is completely made of glass—the purest, clearest glass, which captures the sun setting on the Peacock Mountains. From the ceiling hangs a crystal chandelier that she is certain is larger than the formal dining room at home. Each crystal seems as long as her fingers and is brighter than any star in the sky.

The most dazzling feature of the room, however, sits at the far end of the hall. Although dressed in stiff court attire, Draco Malfoy drapes against the rich upholstery of a high-backed chair. A smirk grows on his face as she approaches his makeshift throne.

Her shoes clack on the marble floor. Her cheeks warm while his attention travels from her thick plait hanging over one shoulder to her simple, unadorned dress. As his gaze traces down her right arm, he finally notices the object in her hand.

He pales.

A smug grin tugs at the corners of her lips.

In the next instant, his back is ramrod straight, fingers fidgeting in his lap. He averts his eyes to the windows, to the ceiling, to his expensive shoes—anywhere but at her and the wand in her hand.

“Madam, I must insist that you put that,”—his eyes flick to the vinewood before quickly glancing away—”that- _that_ -away. Immediately.”

She dangles her wand between her thumb and forefinger. “What? This?”

He inhales sharply (one might have called it a gasp, but Malfoys are beneath such uncouth reactions) and jumps out of his seat, rushing towards the bay of windows. He clasps a fist behind his back, keeping his gaze steady on the darkening horizon. “I invited you here to discuss serious matters. Not for you to—” He swallows.

“You invited me here so we can talk, one heir to another.”

“Yes.”

“As _equals_.”

Three heartbeats thunder in his ears. “Yes.”

“And so here I am.”

Slowly, he turns on his heels. He meets her gaze, fighting the urge to peek at the intriguing wand in her hand. A part of his mind wonders if he truly did glimpse an intricate design (his wand is so disappointingly plain). There is a glint to her eyes, as though she knows he is tempted—a look of challenge. A dare.

He nudges his chin sharply upward. “I must insist that you put your wand away before we begin.”

Hermione scoffs. “Why should I put mine away when you have yours out in the open?” She points to his hawthorn wand lying forgotten on the high-backed chair.

“I am not a woman,” he answers simply.

“And I am.”

“Exactly.”

She tsks. “A woman in a full skirt,”—she runs her hands over the side of said skirt—”and no pockets. So I’m afraid the wand stays out, same as yours.”

The muscles of his face convulse, as though holding back an internal explosion. “ _Fine_ ,” Draco grinds out. He stalks to his seat.

Before he can sit down, she holds up a finger. “And I’d like my own chair, please. Just like that one.” She adds a saccharine smile with her request.

With a stiff nod, Draco gestures to the servant at the door. A moment later, five men bustle in—two carrying a heavy chair between them (just like Draco’s down to the upholstery, she notes), another pair hoisting a circular table, and the last bringing in tea service. They arrange the setting and hurry out of the room, too smart to stay while the vein on their master’s left temple bulges tellingly.

Draco grips his armrests as Hermione pulls out her own chair and sits down. Her wand lands on the table with a clatter; his eyes squeeze shut as he braces himself for what is promising to be a horrendous evening. With a long exhale, he relaxes against his chair, waving lazily towards the tray. “Tea.”

“Yes, please. Just sugar.”

He blinks. “Erm.” He points to the teapot. “Right,” he mumbles and half-rises out of his seat as he fumbles about with the service. Having never have prepared tea (and she had probably guessed it, he realizes), it is mere minutes later when he proudly sets down a cup in front of her, only a dribble of liquid ending up in her saucer.

“Thank you,” she says with a wry smile.

He nods and sips his own drink (and then forces the too-sweet tea down his throat). “So,” he chokes out, “the matter at hand.”

“Hootin.”

“Yes. The village of Hootin.”

They stare at each other unblinkingly, daring the other to back down. “It’s mine,” they say at the same time.

“Granger—“

“ _Lady_ Granger.”

A spot above his left cheekbone twitches. “Lady Granger. A village is difficult to manage. I know this as there are three other villages on our lands. There are the taxes to be collected, buildings and roads to be maintained—“

“And people to govern, yes, I know. My father trained me well. I’ve been in charge of our other village in the years before his passing.” The swell of pride makes her sit a bit taller.

“Oh. Well. Good.”

“And seeing as you already have three villages, I think that Hootin would be much more of a burden on your estate than it would be on mine.”

He leans back, finding a familiar foothold in the conversation after so many missteps. “But we have the means. Your family— _Lady_ Granger—is what people in my set call the ‘nouveau riche.’”

Hermione rolls her eyes.

“My family’s wealth is older than—than the Peacock Mountains,” Draco exclaims, waving at the dark window.

“That doesn’t mean that you’ll take better care of the village than I will!”

“Doesn’t it?”

Hermione sighs as she thumps her head against the backrest. “You’re impossible.” She plants her elbows on the table (Draco’s eyes widen) and buries her face in her hands. “I came here to see if you would be willing to work on a solution.” She laughs mirthlessly. “I should have listened to Harry. He told me you would be too stubborn.”

Draco swallows a growl; there was only one ‘Harry’ that makes his way in these parts. “Potter.”

She nods. “He’s a friend of mine.”

“A close friend?”

Hermione smiles sweetly. “The best.”

His fingers clutch the engraved ends of his armrests. “I see.”

“And he told me talking to you would be a useless endeavor. That you’re too stubborn to listen.” She glances at him, and realization and understanding flash behind her eyes. She straightens up and says carefully, “Just like your father.”

Her words stab him in the heart. His tongue darts out to wet his parched lip. “What do you propose?" he asks gruffly.

Hermione takes a deep breath. "Simple. Since neither of us is willing to give up our ancestral claim, then there's only one logical solution."

Draco quirks an eyebrow. "Which is?"

"We let the villagers decide."

A laugh bubbles in his throat. "A truly inspired idea," he says mockingly.

She throws her hands up. "And a fair one," she insists. "They're the ones who have to live with one of us.  _They_ should decide."

"And so, what— _we_ go to them and  _beg_ them to accept one of us as their lord?"

"Or lady," she quips.

As his mirth dies down, Draco gazes at her intently. "You're serious."

Hermione nods, confidence sitting easily on her countenance. It is this, more than any other posturing she had done over the course of the night, that stirs something within him. The clarity in her eyes, the sureness of her smile, the angle of her chin (just a degree short of haughtiness)—despite knowing her from afar in their summers at court, this woman is alien and frightening...and so very  _interesting_.

"All right." The words escape his lips before he could think twice. "We'll do it your way. Tomorrow, we'll go down and speak with the village."

She jumps up excitedly. The bulk of her skirt bumps up the table, and her wand rolls towards the edge. He suppresses the urge to reach out to keep it from falling.

With one hand, Hermione plucks her wand in midair; she juts the other hand towards him. "It's a deal."

He allows himself only an instant of hesitation before he gets to his feet. He takes her hand—roughly half the size of his, but with a firm grip—and shakes it. "May the best lord—"

"Or lady."

"—win."

**Author's Note:**

> Will be expanded after the fest.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments/Kudos are appreciated!


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